


You Don't Mean Nothing At All To Me (but you could)

by viceperannum



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Coercion, Crying, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Feelings, Gangbang, Hate Sex, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 15:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceperannum/pseuds/viceperannum
Summary: That was the difference between them, though, Claude thought. Crosby’s pride drew lines in the sand that way. Claude wasn’t nearly so petty.Mean, sometimes, but not petty.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) If you're at all sensitive to consent issues, I highly recommend you either hit the back button now or at least read the (very) spoilery end notes for clarification. This is yet another addition to the "Crosby gets gangbanged by Flyers" trope, so it's basically 11k words of filthy, power-struggle porn with some feelings that somehow slipped under the door. Not really sure why I decided to make this my first foray into this fandom, but...what are you gonna do? The fic has been beta'd, but my beta is as much of a grilled cheesby fan as I am, so she let me leave in a lot of stuff I probably should've cut, all on the theory that fans of a rare pairing deserve every word they can get. thanks, crazynerdom.
> 
> 2) Takes place after the final Flyers/Penguins game of 2017, which the Penguins enthusiastically lost. If you're a Brandon Manning fan, turn back now. My only knowledge of him is the shit that went down with McDavid and the dirty hit on Guentzel, and the fic reflects this.
> 
> 3) Title from the Nelly Furtado song "Say it Right." God, I feel old.
> 
> 4) FICTION. FICTION. FICTION.

Claude was toweling his hair, wearing only his boxer briefs, his skin cold and goose-bumping in the air conditioned locker room, when the low chatter of his waiting teammates fell abruptly silent. Once he looked up and saw why, he couldn’t find words either.

Sidney Crosby was standing in front of the door by the benches. He wore sweats and a T-shirt and flip-flops, and his hair curled damp at his forehead. His shoulders were square, his expression blank, his eyes flat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jakes asked, more curious than aggressive.

Crosby ignored Jakes entirely, his gaze on Claude. It was arrogant in the way that only Crosby could be, but at the same time, Claude understood. As much as this rivalry had burned through everyone on both teams for decades, there'd always been a special level of challenge between the two of them. Captain versus captain. Each of them the physical embodiment of everything they wanted to destroy. To bow to anyone with less power than Claude only added insult to Crosby's injury.

That was the difference between them, though, Claude thought. Crosby’s pride drew lines in the sand that way. Claude wasn’t nearly so petty.

Mean, sometimes, but not petty.

“You were asked a question,” Claude said, slinging his towel to one side.

Crosby’s jaw muscle tightened and released once. “I’m following the rules.”

“Rules say no rookies, call-ups, or injured players,” Claude pointed out. “Rules don’t say captain has to go.”

“I don’t exactly have a lot of other options at the moment.” Crosby’s words were rough, barely getting out of his throat.

“You’ve got vets. A’s. That old guy on your fourth line. Or where’s Kunitz? About time he earned his keep, no?”

“He’s married,” Crosby said, sounding disgusted. “So’s Cullen.”

Claude frowned. “Pens exempt married guys?” He’d never heard of such a thing. Sacrifice was built into everyone’s contracts. They all knew what this was, and it didn’t have anything to do with fucking. Sex was just the thing they used to twist the knife. It wasn’t like the guy getting worked over was supposed to get anything out of it. So what did it matter if a guy had someone at home to ease the humiliation?

“Pens don’t. _I_ do.” Crosby’s mouth worked before he managed to clamp it down. “You mind getting down to this already?”

 _Pens don’t, I do._ What the hell did that mean? Claude glanced at Simmer, as if he might be able to shed some light, but Simmer, leaning against a partition two stalls down, only shrugged. Claude turned back to Crosby, confusion making his voice sharper. “Yeah, I mind. Answer the fucking question. Why are you here?”

The room was dead silent. Claude stood by his stall, careful to keep his arms and legs loose and ready. He didn’t think Crosby would rush him or take a swing or anything, but he’d been wrong before, and if he’d learned anything from a near-decade of rivalry, it was not to underestimate the temper of the man standing opposite him. Crosby was a genial enough guy when everything was going his way, but if you got under his skin, he turned into a creature of teeth and claws and cheap shots. And nothing got under Crosby’s skin like losing.

Claude wasn’t interested in handling this with kid gloves, though. The losing team’s sacrifice had a role to fill, and 95% of it was to eat shit politely. If Crosby was going to step up, he needed to _step up_ , no matter how much it burned.

Crosby’s gaze shifted, flitting around the edges of the locker room, passing over the dozen-plus guys in assorted states of undress, all of them watching him like he was a snake that might coil and strike at any moment. Waiting to see if he’d argue or push back. If he’d submit.

Claude could almost see the wheels turning in Crosby’s head, could sense the fight instinct in him coming to the surface, and that was nothing but trouble. Crosby didn’t go down easy, never had, never would, and if Claude let them start down that road, this whole thing would get ugly fast.

Carefully, evenly, Claude said, “I just want to understand your thinking. Make sure we know where we stand. No big deal.”

Crosby’s gaze snapped to his, wary. After a moment, though, something in his body language eased back. “We’re running thin. We don’t—” He licked his lips. Not nervously. More like he was irritated with the struggle to find the right words. “It seems like every time we turn around, someone else has gone down. We’ve been handling it, mostly, but it’s…Shearsy might be hurt again, and we’re just…we don’t give up. We never just give up. But today, we…I’m…I have to wake them up.”

Crosby clamped his mouth shut and stared over Claude’s shoulder at the wall.

Claude considered this. Crosby’s pride was a strange, convoluted thing. No one who knew him doubted that he wanted to win more than he wanted his next breath, and he didn’t give a shit about how he looked crossing that finish line. He’d crawl across it humiliated and disrespected and tell the world to kiss his ass in the process, so long as he got that Cup in the end—that was where the pride came from for him. Maybe he really didn’t mind being here, taking a knee to men who hated him, so long as it paid off in the end.

Beyond that, the logistics made sense enough. The Penguins were limping toward the playoffs on the heels of a shortened off-season because of last summer’s win, struggling under the weight of the hockey world’s push for a repeat Cup run for the first time in two decades. They had eight of their regular lineup out with injuries, Crosby had been through a half-dozen line mates so far this season, and Claude was the first to admit that the Pens had been downright easy to beat these last two games. Crosby’s boys were tired and demoralized.

This—knowing their captain was getting shamed and gang-banged for them—might be the thing that put the fire back in their bellies.

Claude was torn between being impressed by Crosby’s willingness to put himself in this position, and disgust that none of the Pens had flat-out refused to allow it. Claude hadn’t played the sacrifice since he took the C. Simmer and Jakes and Gudy—hell, any of his guys—would’ve opened their veins before they’d let that happen.

But the Pens had always been a mystery to him, so Claude let it go. “Fair enough. What’s your safe word?”

“Mario.”

A couple guys tittered like it was some kind of dirty admission, but Claude nodded. If the specter of a furious Le Magnifique didn’t take away a man’s wood, nothing would. Not that it would be needed. Safewording was rare—no one got too far out of line, since it only took one bad game to find yourself under the thumb of the guy you’d just fucked over. But it existed for a reason, and while there were fines and shit that the losing team would have to pay if the sacrifice did it, Claude had never heard of a team giving a guy a hard time over it.

He said, “All right.”

It hit him then what this meant. What was about to happen. If it had been anyone else, Claude wouldn’t have blinked. Rivalries were all well and good, but off the ice, they were guys doing a job, and Claude wasn’t going to treat some second-year third-line center trying to make it in the league like a piece of shit after-hours because of the color of his uniform. Yeah, the nature of the sacrifice system was rough, but that was an inherent thing. Claude didn’t need to add anything to it by being a dick.

But this…this was different. This was… _Criss_. He didn’t even know what to think. Sidney Crosby, the NHL’s golden boy, the darling of the league, the man who’d once tried to get to the Cup by running through Claude as violently as possible, was… _his_.

“Take your shit off,” Claude said.

Crosby’s gaze snapped to Claude’s, and the moment hung. Everyone held very still. The air in the room seemed to thicken.

And after a heartbeat, Crosby began to strip.

His skin was pale, except for some bruises. Two were green and yellow, the memory of another team splashed across his ribs, but one was big and only starting to purple, settled over his flank. The work of a Flyer. He didn’t have much body hair. He was leaner than he’d been when Claude had seen him at the World Cup in September, rawboned after seventy games on a skeleton crew, but Crosby would never appear to be anything but powerful. He didn’t get smaller or weaker; he only got more concentrated.

Still, no way was he two hundred pounds right now, no matter what his bio claimed.

“You need more calories,” Claude mused, watching him kick his clothes to one side, and Crosby gave him a look that plainly said _are you kidding me right now, asshole?_

Claude smirked. Fuck, it was fun to mess with this bastard.

Crosby stood perfectly still, letting the men in the room study him, his chin high, seemingly unbothered by his nudity. Maybe he really wasn’t; he certainly didn’t have reason to feel otherwise. His mouth and ass were practically Canadian national treasures, and while he wasn’t the best looking guy in the league, he was definitely the best looking guy in this room. Not that it was a high bar; half the competition never bothered to wear their dentures.

The only thing Claude hadn’t seen was his dick. They’d shared locker rooms before on international teams, but it wasn’t like he’d looked. Only now was he free to stare as much as he wanted, and he wasn’t disappointed. Crosby wasn’t hiding a monster between his thighs or anything—Claude was probably longer unless Crosby was a substantial grower—but like everything else about his lower body, Crosby’s dick was thick, wide as a man’s wrist even flaccid.

Claude raised his eyes. Crosby was staring back at him, unbowed by the attention. Even in this, when Crosby was supposed to be penitent and vulnerable, he stood there like a damn king surveying his kingdom.

Claude was suddenly struck with an urge to shred him. To make all of that quiet confidence leak away until desperation was all that was left.

It was hardly a new feeling, but for the first time, he had the clear upper hand.

“Someone get a cushion for his majesty here,” Claude said. “Imagine the noise we’ll get if we aren’t careful with his delicate knees. And get some lube and shit, too. We’re not fucking running a dating service here.”

Crosby rolled his eyes.

“Aw, don’t worry, precious, we’re getting to you,” Simmer told him, and someone snickered. Crosby’s cheeks flushed a dull, angry red.

A couple guys went to the small cabinet kept stocked exactly for this purpose, and a second later a cushion flopped onto the floor in front of Claude. He nudged it into place with one foot before sinking onto the bench and leaning back, the partition between his stall and Simmer’s sturdy enough to support his weight.

“C’mon.” Claude jerked his chin at Crosby. “Get over here.”

Crosby took his dear old sweet time about it, a tiny _fuck you_ that only made the warm itch of Claude’s urge to break him that much stronger. Claude was starting to get that good, down-low heaviness—he’d be hard very soon, and he wanted to be in Crosby’s mouth when it happened.

“You ever sucked a dick?” he asked, when Crosby was finally kneeling in front of him.

Crosby’s jaw tightened. “Are we sixteen now? You want to pass notes in class about which one of us has gone further?”

Claude sighed. “I’m not trying to pry into your business, you paranoid prick. I’m trying to make sure you don’t bite my dick off on accident.”

“If I bite your dick off, it won’t be an accident,” Crosby replied flatly, making half the locker room laugh and the other half hiss at his insolence.

Claude waved a hand at him, already tired of Crosby’s shit. “Fine, keep your secrets, asshole. But consider where you are before you start taking nips out of people, eh? Now get that pretty mouth started.”

Crosby’s lips went thin, but he reached up to tug open the flap in Claude’s boxer-briefs. Claude shook his head, lifting his hips instead, and Crosby went with it, tugging the underwear down Claude’s thighs and off his feet instead. Crosby threw them over his shoulder without looking and managed to almost catch Simmer in the face, something that Claude was certain had been purposeful. He chuckled a little, both at the snarl of offense Simmer gave and the resulting, self-satisfied gleam in Crosby’s eyes.

That gleam was only visible for a few seconds though, because Crosby’s gaze fell, landing on Claude’s dick. Crosby’s expression was carefully neutral. It was his media face, probably, and that pissed Claude off further, the way Crosby was still so damn above it all, so _removed_ from the situation. Crosby might as well have been watching paint dry for all the interest he showed.

Which…probably meant it was an act, now that he thought about it.

Claude had been in the league for a long time now, and the one thing that was true? The only guys who played the sacrifice without getting nervous were the vets who’d done it a million times, who’d bent the knee to so many rival rookies high on life that they never blinked twice at any kind of sexual humiliation a situation could offer. Those guys, the ones who truly didn’t give a shit anymore, they made jokes about come and bitched about how giving hand jobs made their wrists ache these days and told the younger guys to hurry up so no one would miss the bus.

Crosby wasn’t one of those guys, and this blank media expression was bullshit. He was burning. Down deep, where he wouldn’t have to acknowledge it, this was burning him something fierce.

“Suck me,” Claude said, and Crosby did.

His mouth was wet and hot and soft. Good, if a bit disinterested. Claude traced his thumb along Crosby’s cheekbone, then slipped his hand up on the top of Crosby’s head. “Deeper.”

Crosby paused, glaring up at Claude in warning, but Claude didn’t push, just trailed his fingers through those dark curls and waited for Crosby to get back to it. The eye contact held for a long minute, a subtle battle of wills, and abruptly Crosby dropped his gaze and took Claude so deep that he had to be halfway down Crosby’s throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Crosby’d had a dick or ten in his mouth before, that was for damn sure. Claude’s eyes were rolling back in his head with the force of the suction he was getting, and his heart kicked double-speed in his chest.

The locker room had grown quiet again, but for the occasional slick sounds of a few guys jerking off. No one was likely to come yet—they could get off with their hands at home, after all—but Claude could admit that Crosby made a tempting picture like this, down on his knees, bent over Claude’s lap, his muscled back strong, the nape of his neck unguarded. Claude could feel the scrape of Crosby’s gold chain against his leg every now and then as Crosby worked him over, the little _87_ catching on the hair of his thighs.

It had only been a few minutes, but Claude’s gut was tightening, his skin warming, and before he could second guess himself, he dug his fingers into Crosby’s hair and pulled his head up.

“What?” Crosby snarled, jerking away. He rocked back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just fucking finish already, huh?”

Claude watched him for a minute, not saying anything, letting his body calm down. He studied Crosby’s lips—red and a bit swollen—and tried not to think of what it had felt like, because the point was to chill, not come.  So he looked Crosby over elsewhere too.

He wasn’t hard. Claude hadn’t expected him to be. He figured Crosby was running plays in his head instead of thinking about how to make it good. Claude would too, in his place. That didn’t mean Claude had to like it.

“Who’s next?” Claude asked the room at large, and a few of the guys whooped and started jostling. Someone turned some music on, one of Del Zotto’s playlists instantly recognizable, the low, throbbing beat fitting the mood perfectly.

“You didn’t come,” Crosby said, eyes narrowing.

“No shit.” Claude glanced up, saw Simmer hovering over them. “You got a preference, buddy?”

“I want that ass,” Simmer said baldly, making Crosby scowl. “Don’t much care how I get it.”

“Good.” Claude reached out and pressed his thumb to Crosby’s lower lip. Surprisingly, Crosby didn’t pull away. “You’re gonna suck me while Simmer fucks you. And if I come before he does, I’m gonna make you suck me off again after everyone else is done. Understand?”

“I speak English, don’t I?” Crosby intoned and reached up, catching Simmer’s wrist in his hand and yanking, hard enough that Simmer came down to one knee, startled and furious. Crosby said evenly, “I have practice tomorrow. I better be able to play.”

Simmer twisted free and gave Crosby a shove, hard enough that it probably hurt, but not hard enough to knock Crosby to one side. No surprise really. If you couldn’t shove him off the puck when he was on the ice, how far was he going to go when he was kneeling on carpet?

“He knows the rules,” Claude admonished. “Don’t be a dick.” Crosby ignored him and bent back over his lap, taking Claude into his mouth once more.

Simmer was muttering under his breath as he circled to get behind Crosby, opening the lube and pouring a substantial amount in his palm at the same time. A very substantial amount. After closing the lid again with a _snick,_ he slapped the whole handful onto Crosby’s left buttock, splattering it everywhere. Crosby jolted in fury and tried to lift his head, but Claude gently held him still, muttering, “Let it go, c’mon.”

Over Crosby’s back, Claude gave Simmer a dirty look. “Remember where his teeth are, eh?”

Simmer grinned and got started.

Claude leaned back, closing his eyes. Crosby’s mouth wasn’t nearly as adept now. More than half of the guy’s attention was on whatever Simmer was doing to his ass, and without having to work so hard not to come, it was easy to lose track of everything and focus the long, slow pleasure unfurling in his gut. The squelching of lube came to him over the music, and he floated for a bit, aware of little else but the sensation of Crosby’s tongue until suddenly Crosby went still and grunted.

Claude opened his eyes. Simmer’s hand was hard to see past the rise of Crosby’s ass—the thing really was impressive—but the small movements of his elbow showed that he was prodding deep rather than thrusting his fingers in and out. Crosby let out a second, more-strangled sound.

“Right there, huh?” Simmonds murmured, his tone only half-mocking. He was watching the taut line of Crosby’s back like he’d never seen anything so fascinating. His arm moved again and again, and Crosby lurched forward, away from Simmer’s hand, taking Claude deeper inadvertently his attempt to escape, and choking himself in the process. He started to lift his head again, and Claude held him gently in place once more.

“No,” Claude told him. “You came here. You volunteered to do this. If Simmer wants to get you hard, you’ll get hard.”

Crosby went still, every muscle in his body rigid, his eyes angry where they stared unblinking at Claude’s belly. It took a minute, but his mouth started back up. Simmer’s arm began moving again too.

“That good enough for you, your majesty?” Simmer asked after a while. “You’re wet and soft as a girl now.”

Crosby didn’t respond in any way, but a lack of complaint was usually an answer in and of itself with Crosby, so Simmer dried his hand on a towel. Once he’d nudged Crosby’s thighs a bit further apart to give himself more room, he began easing in.

Claude let Crosby lift his head when he resisted this time, figuring it was reasonable, given that Simmer was wedging a big dick inside of him now. Crosby’s eyes were closed, his brow creased in anger or concentration as he blew out a breath.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Simmer muttered. “Fuck, fuck, that’s…fuck, Crosby, I always knew you’d be a tight ass. Loosen up.”

Crosby snarled something that got choked off as Simmer eased deeper.

“Relax,” Claude murmured, stroking Crosby’s temple. “Breathe.”

The gesture seemed to reorient Crosby’s attention. He exhaled again, long and even, before his head dropped to rest on Claude’s thigh. Claude’s chest went warm unexpectedly. “There you go,” he whispered, combing through Crosby’s hair, weirdly gratified when Crosby shuddered. His breath was hot on Claude’s skin.

“I’m in,” Simmer said, sounding strangled. “Fuck.”

He waited a minute to allow Crosby a chance to adjust before he started moving, setting a slow, easy rhythm. It seemed a shame to remind Crosby of what he should be doing—there was something sweet about the way he’d buried his face against Claude’s leg—but the sight of Simmer rocking into the guy was making his own dick eager. So he tugged on Crosby’s hair and got him back where he wanted him. Crosby’s mouth was distracted, frequently falling still until Claude nudged him back into action, but Claude didn’t mind. It kept his arousal alive but not overwhelming. He wanted this to last.

When Simmer had groaned out his climax with a last flurry of thrusts, Bellemare stepped up. He gave a nod to Claude, slid between Crosby’s legs and patted one ass cheek until Crosby seemed to get that he was asking permission and waved a hand in a _get on with it_ kind of motion over his shoulder. It didn’t take long. Only a few minutes of impersonal thrusts got him to come, and he pulled out like he’d done nothing more exciting than watching a couple of infomercials. He headed for the showers, and Jakes came up.

“Mind if I put him on his back?” he asked Claude, who shrugged. He kind of liked the idea of Crosby sucking him the whole night, like Crosby’s mouth was his and his alone, but it was a selfish urge, and he wouldn’t be a very good captain if he didn’t share a little.

So he sank back and lazily tugged on his dick as he watched Jakes roll Crosby over and shove the cushion under his hips. Crosby went easily enough, though he turned his head toward the wall and closed his eyes. He seemed tense in this new position, not liking the exposure maybe. Jakes lined up and pushed in, fucking Crosby with short, fast strokes that, by the end, had Crosby shifting like he was in discomfort.

Jakes seemed to realize it too, but only on the verge of climax. He came hard, and when he pulled out he was frowning. He knelt there uncertainly for a second. “Sorry.”

Crosby shook his head. “Forget it.”

“Say if you’re getting sore or something,” Claude said. He grabbed a nearby sweaty towel and threw it on Crosby’s face.

“Fuck off,” Crosby snapped, hurling the towel back without sitting up.

“Don’t just let us hurt you, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’d have said something in a minute, but your concern is touching,” Crosby replied, because he was a prick. Claude rolled his eyes. Let him be miserable. Let him end up raw if he wanted; it was his own fault if he was too proud to speak up right away.

That determination lasted about five seconds. As he watched Del Zotto and Reader take Jakes’ place beside Crosby, Claude sighed, annoyed at himself. “Use more lube, guys.”

Crosby stared at him, a slight crease between his eyebrows. Claude returned the look stonily, and eventually Crosby turned away.

As Del Zotto used a good palmful of lube to slick himself up, Reader straddled Crosby’s chest and murmured, “Would you open your mouth, please?”

When Crosby obeyed, Reader guided his cock inside, bracing his upper body on the nearest bench and keeping most of his weight on his knees. He began to slowly fuck Crosby’s face, gentle and tidy about the whole thing, polite as only Reader could be. Meanwhile, Del Zotto hefted Crosby’s legs and slid in. Claude watched Crosby for more signs that it hurt, but the lube had fixed the problem, it appeared.

After a few minutes, Del Zotto cried out and finished, getting up and going to the showers shakily. Reader took longer, probing deeply into Crosby’s mouth, careful to make sure Crosby had time to breathe in what had to be the most respectful and delicate face-fucking Claude had ever seen. Crosby seemed all right with it—his hands kept opening and closing on his belly like he wanted to reach up and maybe pull Reader deeper. His dick kept twitching, too, and even without any more stimulation to his prostate he was still half-hard. It was surprisingly hot, maybe because it looked—for the first time—like Crosby was a participant instead of an object. It…it looked good on him, Claude decided, though he knew that was supposed to be a bad thing. The point was humiliation. The point was to diminish Crosby and teach him his place, not to please him, not to gratify him. But as Reader’s hand came down to cup Crosby’s cheek and tilt his head back, Crosby let out a soft moan that was quickly muffled.

Claude’s dick—which he’d been half-heartedly jerking this whole time—got harder.

Reader said, “I’d like you to swallow, okay?”

Crosby gave a low rumble of agreement when he could, and Reader’s hips jerked a few times, rougher than he’d been so far and yet still not enough to make Crosby choke, and he came with a groan. Crosby swallowed it all like a pro.

“Would you like me to make you come?” Reader asked, and a couple of the guys hooted. Reader ignored them, rubbing a hand in circles over Crosby’s sternum as he waited for an answer. Crosby flushed a little pink, blinking like he wasn’t sure how to respond, and finally said, “No, but thanks for the offer.”

Reader nodded, gave him a last pat, and got up.

Manning came up next, his eyes intent and hard on Crosby’s sprawled body. One of his hands was already stroking lube onto his cock. He glanced at Claude, jerked his head in a little question, and Claude felt an absurd urge to say no. Manning was a physical guy, capable of substantial bloodthirstiness, and all it would take to set him off was the opportunity to press a line with a guy who had more than him. This was going to come very close to the edge, and a small, strange part of Claude didn’t like the idea at all.

But that was the point, he told himself, and nodded.

Manning rolled him over, but he wasn’t satisfied with Crosby on his hands and knees—he put a palm between Crosby’s shoulder blades and shoved down, forcing his face to the carpet. Every muscle in Crosby’s body went steel-taut, his hands making fists on the floor even as Manning pushed between his thighs and thrust inside hard enough to drive a harsh exhale from Crosby’s lungs.

“You’ve always thought you were better than us,” Manning muttered, his grip punishing on Crosby’s hips, forcing him to hold still. “Well, you’re not better now, are you, you whore? Take it. Take every inch.”

Crosby tried to push himself up, but Manning had all the leverage, and he shoved him back down. “You can fight if you want to. I don’t mind it. I’ll put you down as many times as it takes. Maybe that’s what you want, huh? You like it rough, Crosby?”

“Fuck you.”

Manning laughed. “Think it’s going the other way, _Kid._ ”

Crosby stared viciously at the far wall, his cheeks bright red, and Manning paused, adjusting his angle with little pulses of his hips, until suddenly Crosby gasped and stiffened.

“There we go,” Manning snarled. “Right like that. Gonna make you like it.”

Crosby’s knuckles went white, his expression twisting like he’d prefer to tell Manning to go fuck himself, and for a second, when Crosby started to really struggle, Claude thought he was about to have a fistfight on his hands.

“Do you need to safe word?” he asked, and Crosby abruptly went still. Manning’s thrusts slowed.

“Crosby,” Claude said. “Say the word and it’s done.”

“No.” Crosby’s voice was hoarse, but certain.

Claude almost left it there. Almost. It wasn’t his fucking business or his problem, and while Manning was an asshole on a good day, he was _team_. That should’ve been a hell of a lot more important than Sidney Crosby’s pride, but none of that seemed to matter when Manning started pounding into Crosby again, one hand going around and down to grab at his dick, squeezing enough to make him gasp.

Suddenly Claude was asking, “Do you want him to make you come, Crosby?”

Manning’s hips jittered to a stop again. They were both looking at him now. Hell, _everyone_ was. Claude well remembered what he’d said earlier— _you volunteered. If Simmer wants to get you hard, you’ll get hard—_ and yeah, maybe he was contradicting himself, but he didn’t care. The tone here was different enough that Claude wasn’t comfortable with it, and the point was humility, not abuse.

Crosby’s gaze was heavy on Claude’s face, his thoughts impossible to discern. Suspicion was in there, Claude thought, but there were other things too, things that he wasn’t entirely comfortable defining.

“No,” Crosby said finally. “I don’t want to come.”

Claude nodded at Manning meaningfully. “You heard him. Get off, then get lost.”

Manning cursed under his breath, but he let go of Crosby’s dick.

Claude wasn’t sure he’d done Crosby any favors in the end, though. It mostly seemed to piss Manning off, and if Crosby had planned to get out of here without a few bruises, he’d lost that bet already.

Manning was spewing all sorts of filth now, calling Crosby a cock-hungry whore, a little bitch, a Cindy Crybaby, and grinning about it throughout. Any time Manning drew a grunt or a sharp inhale out of Crosby he puffed up more, proud of himself for his roughness, until he had to be near to choking on his superiority. The shame Claude had wished for earlier, that this whole enterprise was meant to cause, was burning from every line of Crosby’s face and body, and the comparison between his own thoughts and the reality in front of him made him a little seasick. Claude wondered when and if Crosby would say the safe word, even started to _hope_ that he would _,_ but Crosby remained completely silent.

That silence turned out to be an effective weapon, however; as the minutes passed and Crosby didn’t yield, Manning’s expression grew stormier, his frustration visible. He got rougher, but Crosby still didn’t say a word, and now there was a grim pleasure in the tilt of Crosby’s head, in the way he held his mouth. It was the same face he made on the ice when he came to the dot for the last faceoff of a nasty game that he was nonetheless going to win.

Manning pushed harder, spoke his filth louder, and despite the humiliation riding him, despite the sweat on his skin and the weariness in his shoulders, Crosby didn’t break and didn’t break and didn’t break, just stared at the carpet, flat and certain and made of steel.

When he thought enough time had passed that he could claim he was speaking up not on Crosby’s behalf but for the interest of the other players who were waiting, Claude said, “Wrap it up, Manning.”

Manning tossed him a sullen glower, but put his back into it. He came with near-violent force before pulling out with the disinterest of a child with a toy he’d tired of. He left Crosby on the floor breathing hard, completely wrecked, red marks all over his skin from where Manning’s hands, marks that would be bruises by tomorrow. Several of the guys had apparently found the scene to their tastes; Manning wasn’t the only one who headed for the showers.

“Jesus,” Schenner murmured in the ensuing, heavy quiet. He looked rocked. Schenner had never seemed particularly inclined to like Crosby, and Claude was pretty sure the feeling was mutual after the cross-check Schenner had given him after the whistle during a game last year, but this was different from some on-ice rough housing. Schenner was a good kid, and this was different.

It was only once the buzz of adrenaline began to fade from his blood that Claude realized he’d been anticipating a fight. That he’d been willing to fight, if Manning hadn’t obeyed. Feeling like a stranger in his own skin, Claude went to Crosby and knelt at his side, aware of the eyes on him. It made him a little clumsy, and he tried to keep his motions business-like. Just a captain making sure the sacrifice was in one piece. He put a hand on Crosby’s shoulder and froze. Crosby was trembling.

“You all right?” Claude asked quietly.

Crosby muttered, “He pissed me off, that’s all.”

Claude wasn’t stupid enough to believe the lie, so he stayed there for a few minutes, petting Crosby’s back like he was a cat or something, feeling stupid and frustrated and awkward as the others watched his ham-handed attempts to be kind to a man he’d always thought of as an enemy. When Crosby’s trembling finally subsided, though, most of Claude’s anxiety faded beneath a burst of relief that he tried hard to ignore.

“This is enough, don’t you think?” Claude asked. “You’ve gotten through—”

“I’m fine. Bring it.” Crosby was still hoarse, but there was nothing hesitant in his tone.

“You know I won’t—”

“I said bring it.”

Claude studied him for a second, his hand still resting on Crosby’s back. “We don’t give up,” Crosby had said earlier, although it would’ve been more accurate to say that _Crosby_ didn’t. And in the face of such a heavy attempt to break him down, Claude found himself bizarrely proud of this asshole for not tapping out. Perhaps, even, in awe. It would’ve been such an easy thing to end it—a single word, that was all—and after the nasty undertone of what’d gone down, Claude didn’t think anybody in the room would blame him, but Crosby hadn’t broken. Manning had humiliated and used him, but Crosby would be back on the ice for the next game secure in the knowledge that Manning hadn’t been able to make him yield.

Half-admiring, half-exasperated, Claude shook his head. “You’re a stubborn fucker.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Claude bit back a laugh. He liked the idea that Crosby thought of him as strong in this same way, and he couldn’t stop the smile, not even when he noticed Coots’s watchful gaze as he stood up to make room for whoever was next.

“Schenner,” he said. “Do something dirty to this idiot, yeah?”

Crosby huffed, but it wasn’t angry. If anything, it echoed the exasperated, reluctant respect that was beginning to color everything about this for Claude too.

Schenner knelt beside Crosby and put a tentative hand on his hip before using gentle fingers to part his buttocks and study the pink, delicate skin of Crosby’s asshole. Even from where he sat, Claude could see the come dripping out over Crosby’s balls. Schenner touched him gingerly, testing how sore he was, and Crosby nodded encouragement, so Schenner slid his fingers inside, his eyes going dark in the process.

Schenner began stroking himself with one hand while he used the other to press all of that thick come deeper inside Crosby’s body, to search inside him. Crosby lay quietly through all of it, his head pillowed on his arms, giving the occasional sigh or moan when something Schenner did felt particularly good. At one point he spread his legs wider of his own volition to give Schenner more room to work, a move that had Schenner making a harsh sound through his teeth and coming all over Crosby’s ass. When he’d recovered, he pushed his own come inside of Crosby too, terribly gentle, and finished by bending and giving Crosby a small, impulsive kiss on the back of one strong thigh.

Crosby turned his head, his steady gaze lifting to meet Schenner’s. In a low voice, he said, “That was much nicer, thank you.”

Schenner blushed and stammered, “Oh, sure, you’re welcome,” before he all but fled the locker room.

“He’s never going to be able to cross-check you again,” Claude said, mildly annoyed but resigned to it, and Crosby laughed softly, low and throaty. He sounded…he sounded aroused. Or at least like Schenner’s touch had been pleasant. It seemed Claude had something else to add to his understanding of Crosby. Before _will break your wrists,_ but after _claims he doesn’t hit people,_ there was a new entry: _likes to be fucked sweet._

Crosby watched Claude for a long few seconds, his dark eyes unreadable, his skin flushed warm like it’d been when he’d lay under Reader’s polite hands and gentle moves. There was something easy about Crosby now, like some seed of uncertainty had vanished.

Like he’d decided he was safe here after all.

Neuvy and Mason put Crosby on one of the benches on his back, head hanging free over one end, then proceeded to spit-roast him. Crosby was compliant, if unexcited at first. But Mason was careful, using more lube than he probably needed before cupping Crosby’s ass and grinding in slow and deep. He touched Crosby with firm, appreciative hands and murmured to him in a hoarse whisper that Claude couldn’t make out, words that sounded complimentary and left Crosby pink-cheeked and a little flustered. Yes, Crosby definitely liked it sweet; soon enough his dick was hard against his belly. He opened his mouth without being asked so that Neuvy could slide inside, and he seemed to be legitimately sucking, judging from the wide-eyed awe that Neuvy directed at him. Mason seemed to have found a good angle, too, because soon enough Crosby was moving between them, small, subtle undulations that proved he was enjoying himself just fine.

After a bit, Neuvy whispered something that had Crosby lifting a hand to rub encouragingly at Neuvy’s hip, and moments later he pulled out to come on Crosby’s face. Crosby didn’t protest, just waited with his eyes closed until Mason came too, before asking quietly for a towel.

“I gotcha,” Neuvy said, and he wiped Crosby’s face clean with something approaching affection. When he’d tossed the towel aside, he guided Crosby up to sit and perched on the bench beside him, leaning in to cup Crosby’s chin with one hand and kiss him. Crosby jerked back, visibly shocked, but Neuvy followed, gentle and easy, lingering patiently against Crosby’s mouth until, after a brief hesitation, Crosby opened up, letting Neuvy lick inside. He allowed the kiss but only tentatively returned it, and the sight of it left Claude with an ache in his chest.

He had to look away, and he distracted himself by grabbing a bottle of water from the small fridge. Only after Neuvy had pulled away to go shower did he go to Crosby and hold the water out. When he tipped his head back to drink, Claude put a hand on the nape of his neck as if to steady him, all too aware of the bullshit nature of it. He was touching Crosby solely because he wanted to, and it had nothing to do with sacrifice or putting Crosby in his place. There was no way to put Crosby in his place, Claude suspected, and he was only now beginning to realize that he didn’t actually want to. He wanted Crosby like this, with his anger banked and his will intact, his skin sweaty under Claude’s fingertips, his eyes trained on Claude’s face as he lowered the water bottle.

“How do you feel?” Claude asked him.

Crosby jerked a shoulder. “Fine.”

“No safe word?”

“I’m all right, Giroux,” Crosby said, but he didn’t sound irritated so much as thoughtful. Or perhaps curious was a better word for it. “Thanks for the water.”

“We’re not animals,” Claude said dryly, and Crosby snorted, glancing away, no doubt thinking of Manning.

Before he could stop himself, Claude stroked his thumb protectively over Crosby’s neck. It made Crosby shiver, and Claude wasn’t sure why, if it was the sensation of Claude’s touch or if it’d been an involuntary reaction to the thought of Manning. He had an absurd urge to tell Crosby that he didn’t have to be afraid, that Manning had gotten everything he was entitled to with Crosby and that Claude wouldn’t allow him to try to take more.

It was stupid. Crosby didn’t need protecting, and even if he did, it wasn’t Claude’s job.

Confused and irritated about it, Claude pulled his hand away from Crosby’s skin and gestured Konecny closer.

The young forward hesitated, hovering, almost wringing his hands, and Claude sighed, wondering what kink he wanted to indulge that had him tied up in knots. He opened his mouth to point out that this was probably the closest he was going to get to risk-free experimentation, but Crosby got there first. Not unkindly, he said, “Spit it out, kid. What do you want?”

Konecny took a bolstering breath. “Can I rim you? It’s just…your _ass…_ ”

Crosby paused, taken aback, and then shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

“You want uh, a dam or something?” Claude asked doubtfully, thinking about the mess of lube and come that coated Crosby’s ass and thighs by this point. But Konecny had already grabbed a clean towel, and he waved it in the air in answer, going to the sink and wetting it down with warm water.

“I want to suck his dick,” Gudy said in his low voice. “That cool with you, Croz?”

Crosby nodded slowly. “I mean, if um, your buddy doesn’t mind sharing.”

“He doesn’t mind,” Gudy said at the same time that Konecny said, “I don’t mind.” Konecny smiled at their harmony, sending a bashful smile at Gudy.

Claude and Coots exchanged a glance of _did you know about this?_ before Claude decided that this was something that he would have to deal with tomorrow. He had enough on his plate at the moment, so he just gave his defenseman a pointed look and gestured for him to sit on the bench at his left. Crosby got up like he was stiff at first, and he didn’t get any more relaxed when Konecny knelt behind him, towel ready.

“I can do that,” Crosby said, holding his hand out for the towel.

Konecny shook his head. “I’d like to, if that’s okay?”

Crosby flushed, shifting his weight from foot to foot before he finally sighed and turned, letting Konecny sidle up behind him and begin wiping him down. Konecny was thorough, lingering, an expression of worship taking over his face as he touched and held and cupped Crosby’s ass in the process. By the time he tossed the towel aside, he was down on one knee like a parishioner about to genuflect, and Crosby seemed on the verge of combusting from nerves.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous here." Konecny gently spread Crosby's buttocks, looking his fill and making Crosby's blush deepen further in the process. Konecny frowned. “You ever had this done before?”

“No, I, uh, no." Crosby was so focused on what Konecny was doing--even though he was still just looking--that he startled when Gudy cupped his hip in one palm.

"Man, what a waste. You're built for this. Look how pretty you are." Konecny shook his head like the idea of Crosby going through life without getting rimmed was a travesty, sliding a thumb over Crosby's exposed hole. Crosby made a choked, uncertain sound, his face blazing bright red all the way to the tips of his ears, and Konecny hurried to add, "No, don't be embarrassed, God. You're gonna taste so good. You have any idea how long I've been thinking about doing this to you? Since I was like, fifteen. You’re a work of art here, didn't you know that?"

The playlist ran out, but Claude didn’t care. Coots was the only other free person in the room and he didn’t seem inclined to put on anything else either. They were both too busy watching their rookie single-handedly get Sidney Crosby as shy and flustered as a damn virgin.

As if he couldn't help himself, Konecny leaned in and gently raked his teeth across the firm curve of one cheek, making Crosby jolt and lurch forward. Gudy held him still with that hand on his hip and Konecny soothed him with a tiny kiss. "Easy," he murmured. "Easy. I'm gonna make it good for you. You can say if you don't like it, but let me try first, okay, let me show you how good it can be.”

The first touch of lips was cautious, Konecny’s gaze flickering up to catch what he could of Crosby’s reaction. Claude wasn’t sure how much Konecny could see, but he didn’t think it was anything to worry about. In only a handful of seconds, Crosby’s whole body was bowing forward, his breath stuttering, a groan emerging rough and thick from his throat.

He might’ve collapsed forward onto the bench but for Gudy, who ran his hand up Crosby’s belly, pushing him upright so there’d be room for him to work too. He leaned in and took Crosby’s rapidly hardening dick into his mouth, humming like he was pleased with it, and seconds later, Crosby wobbled hard on his feet and had to brace himself against the stall partition. His eyes fell closed. His head dropped back.

Claude had fucked a lot of men through the sacrifice system over the years, and it was almost second nature now to catalog how a guy looked. He'd had almost ten years to get used to Crosby's face across the faceoff dot, and as if that wasn't enough, Crosby appeared in half the shit the NHL put out. Claude had had plenty of time to note every detail and flaw. But he’d never seen Crosby like this. What Manning had tried and failed to bully Crosby into giving, Konecny and Gudy now successfully coaxed from him. Under their gentle mouths, Crosby began to unravel. He wasn’t even trying to fight it.

He was lovely, Claude realized. Lovely and eager and lost and overwhelmed all at once, his mouth open and panting, his back arching, hips jogging like he wasn’t sure whether to press back into Konecny’s mouth or forward into Gudy’s. Crosby’s hand tightened on the partition until his knuckles turned white.

When Konecny pulled back, Crosby let out a distinctive noise of complaint.

“I’m not done,” Konecny said, his voice thick, his eyes heavy-lidded. “God, I’m so not done, just…can you, um, hold your cheeks open for me? I…your ass is…it’s perfect, fuck, but I can’t get in as deep as I—” He broke off when Crosby reached down, pulling his buttocks apart and exposing his hole.

Claude leaned forward, trying to see, and he caught a glimpse of Konecny’s enraptured expression as he dove back in. Crosby jerked as if he’d been shot, and without the music, the wet sounds of their two mouths working was perfectly audible. No small wonder that Crosby was moaning, low and thin at first, but louder as things proceeded. Gudy and Konecny were both jerking themselves now, unhurried, as if they’d decided together to make this last.

Gudy did something that Crosby must’ve liked, because he let out a sound that could only be termed a whine, and he wobbled dangerously on his feet.

Claude was up and moving before he could think of it, circling Gudy and straddling the bench without sitting down, close enough that he could wrap an arm around Crosby’s waist and steady him. _Criss_ , he was a heavy bastard, but Claude liked it. Crosby was even lovelier up close like this, his forehead creased, his eyelashes long and dark, his mouth open and pink. Claude thought of Neuvy kissing him, of the way Crosby had reacted as if torn between the urge to kiss back or to pull away, and Claude wanted to know if Crosby would react that way to him, if the considering glances he’d been getting since he’d intervened with Manning meant anything. He wanted everything.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Claude kissed him, demanding and too rough, sliding his tongue inside. Crosby yielded instantly, showing none of the hesitation Neuvy had gotten. Instead, he tried to crowd closer, and Claude deepened the kiss, slanting his head, his pulse pounding with the urge to take, to own. He tightened his grip on Crosby, who’d begun making soft, high-pitched sounds in the back of his throat, arching closer, and Claude kissed him harder, held him harder, and wished he could suck the very air out of Crosby’s lungs.

Crosby wrenched his mouth away, gasping out, “I’m close, God, I’m gonna, you—”

Gudy and Konecny both pulled away, though they didn’t stop jerking themselves. A minute passed, then two, and Crosby spent that time staring at Claude’s mouth, blinking hazily, before he finally nodded. Gudy and Konecny went back to work, stroking themselves faster now, and Crosby listed forward, his interest plain, and Claude thought _what the fuck am I doing,_ right before he took Crosby’s mouth again.

They did that a few more times—getting Crosby close before calming him down, and Crosby got more and more edged with each rendition, his skin sweat-slicked and hot to the touch, his mouth downright needy.

Konecny came. As he stumbled to his feet, he whispered, “Thank you."

Crosby mumbled, “yeah, yeah,” against Claude’s lips before diving back in.

There was the click of the cap on the lube once again. Crosby’s body rocked against Claude’s in a new way, less like he was searching for contact and more like he’d been gently pushed, and with the three brain cells that weren’t currently either wrapped up in the lush, wet heat of Crosby’s mouth or freaking out about how much he was enjoying the lush, wet heat of Crosby’s mouth, he realized Coots had come over and was prepping Crosby to be fucked once more. Every push of Coots’ fingers had Crosby’s hips shifting, and Claude wanted Crosby moving like this because of him, not Gudy, not Coots. He imagined reaching down, stroking that thick cock. Imagined being the one to give Crosby a spine-bending orgasm, imagined fucking him.

Funny that a simple fantasy and a kiss could be a million times hotter than the earlier blow job he’d wrested from Crosby, that uninvolved, cold reluctance. No, Claude wanted Crosby on his dick just like this, hot and eager and exhilarating.

Gudy came with a cry and Claude thought— _when Coots is done, if Crosby’s not too sore, I can fuck him then, I can know what it’s like._

He was vaguely aware of Gudy easing out from against Crosby’s front. He was more aware of the cool hand that landed on his forearm and tugged him over to sit on the bench, partially because he was forced to stop kissing in the meantime. He was vividly, terrifyingly aware when Crosby was nudged to straddle him on the bench, their hard cocks brushing for a heartbeat.

“Yeah, G?” Coots was whispering, and Claude nodded helplessly. Coots made a soft huff of amusement, then said, “Up, Crosby, lean up.” There was a wet hand on Claude’s dick now—Coots’s—and then Crosby was sinking down on him, taking him as deep as he could from this angle. The sensation of being inside him was intense, and Claude’s head fell back against the stall wall with a _thud_.

Crosby chased him in, though, already kissing him again, and for a second, Claude couldn’t think. He could only feel as his dick was clenched tight, as Crosby worked over him, up and down, up and down, until suddenly it stopped.

Claude felt something brush unexpectedly against his balls and jumped; at the same time, Crosby opened his eyes, the dazed fog in them clearing. “What are you—Couturier, you’re—”

“Shh,” Coots said. “I’m gonna open you up really good first. Breathe. Relax.”

“I don’t—”

“Kiss G,” Coots said, and Claude was embarrassed by how much he wanted to say, _yes, kiss me._

Instead, Claude said, “Do you want to stop? We can. Just say the word.”

The safe word, he meant, but after a heartbeat of uncertainty, Crosby shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I—it’s all right.” He turned his head, though, and a trace of the Crosby that Claude knew best reared his head once more. “You better use a fuckton of lube, Couturier. Go slow. I have-”

“You have practice tomorrow. I know, I know.” Coots laughed, and his palm rested against the shaft of Claude’s dick as he rubbed at Crosby’s rim. “Fucking kiss G already. I’ve got this.”

Crosby took another minute to glare at nothing, then resumed staring down at Claude, who tried to ignore the odd sensations that came with Coots working Crosby open while Claude was still inside him. Crosby’s body was giving little jerks, and his brow was creased as he tried to relax, and none of it was the lovely arousal that Claude wanted to see, so he reached down and took Crosby’s dick in hand, stroking with lingering, curious fingers. He’d been right earlier—Crosby wasn’t long when he was hard, but he was thick as hell.

“Slower,” Claude told Coots, who nodded, and Crosby’s gaze softened a bit as it fell back to Claude’s mouth. That was as much of a sign as Claude needed, and however stupid or strange this impulse might be, he wasn’t particularly inclined to fight it. He kissed Crosby again, loving the way those plush lips parted for him, the way Crosby let him inside despite the self-consciousness and hesitancy. Claude kissed him harder, putting a hand in Crosby’s hair to tilt his head how he wanted it, and Crosby sucked in a breath, some of his nerves replaced by renewed urgency.

Coots had taken Claude at his word; he spent ages opening Crosby up. Claude had lost track of time well before Coots was nudging Claude’s legs wide so he could get behind Crosby on the bench.

Crosby’s kiss stilled, his breath going quick and maybe a little panicked, and Claude stroked his cheek, pressed his mouth against Crosby’s temple and jaw, whispering nonsensical reassurance into his ear. Coots was definitely pushing into him now, his dick sliding almost painfully against Claude’s, and if that wasn’t enough proof, he’d have been able to tell by the way Crosby grimaced. Claude reached for his dick again, keeping him half-hard.

“Okay?” Claude gasped. “Yeah?”

Crosby’s eyes slammed closed, but he nodded. “I just…need a second.”

“Coots,” Claude said, and Coots stopped moving.

“He’s so fucking tight,” Coots gasped. “Jesus, he’s like a fucking furnace inside.”

Eventually Crosby nodded again, and his body rocked forward as Coots resumed pushing inside him. It was downright strange to feel Coots’s dick up against Claude’s own, to feel the absurd tightness and the wetness and friction even though neither he nor Crosby were moving. Claude got harder at the idea of it, of two dicks in Crosby’s ass at once, but it was also the way Crosby’s thighs were split wide over him, the way Crosby’s strong body was shaking, the way he couldn't hide his defenselessness. Claude shifted, tipping his hips and Crosby moaned, low and pained and overwhelmed, and there were—Jesus, there were tears wending their way over his cheeks now.

“Crosby,” Claude said helplessly, “Are we hurting you?”

“It’s just…a lot. It’s so much, Jesus.” He was panting, his fingers clutching Claude’s shoulders so firmly that it ached. Claude couldn’t have told him to let go to save his own life.

“Say it,” Claude murmured. “Say ‘Ma—‘’

"Don’t stop,” Crosby ordered, in a very weak approximation of his captain’s voice. And even that threat of authority vanished as Coots slid in again, pushing Claude’s dick directly into Crosby’s prostate, as Crosby’s eyes all but rolled up in his head. His voice had dropped an octave when he groaned, “Oh, God, that's good.”

That got Claude halfway there all by its lonesome, and he couldn’t breathe past the heat in his gut, couldn’t _think,_ but fortunately, Coots had it a little more together. He began to pick up a rhythm, long, slow thrusts that had them shifting in Crosby’s ass in very careful ways, and all that caution was exactly right, because Crosby was fucking falling apart between them. He was sweaty and red and the tears kept coming, soundless and slow. His arms wound around Claude’s neck, and Claude had to dip his head and kiss him, he had to.

Crosby kissed back. He was making these continuous hurt little sounds, backing onto their cocks, his whole body quivering almost violently, and Claude was close, he was so close. But he wanted Crosby with him on this first. "Can I make you come, Crosby? Tell me I can make you come."

“Okay. Okay, yeah,” Crosby whispered against Claude’s mouth, pleading over and over: “fuck me harder, please, fuck me, fuck me.”

They were already fucking him pretty damn hard, but Claude rolled his hips with more force anyway, using the tiny bit of room and leverage he had in this position. His hand was still wrapped around Crosby’s dick, and he could feel the pre-come slick and sticky between their bodies. He tugged a few times and the effect on Crosby was electrifying: he dropped his head back, cried out, and fucked himself down onto their dicks like he could never get enough.

Coots came seconds later, pumping inside of Crosby with a shout, and Claude didn’t make it past the sensation of Coots’s come flooding over his dick, wet and warm, before he followed. He curled his hips upward as the pleasure rushed through him, and yanked Crosby down onto him at the same time. Too roughly, he thought as the orgasm raced up his spine, but Crosby was coming too, coming hard, his mouth open, his grip on Claude’s shoulders downright painful.

Crosby collapsed forward, his face going into the hollow of Claude’s throat, his chest heaving, his breath catching over and over, his arms and legs limp. Coots eased back gingerly before sprawling onto the floor to recover. Claude was propped up nicely enough; he was comfortable enough to stay there for hours with Crosby in his lap.

He could feel wetness against his throat—sweat, maybe, although judging from Crosby’s tight, quick breaths, more tears weren’t beyond the realm of possibility. He hoped it was the former—hoped it with all his strength, actually, because the idea of Crosby _crying_ crept under Claude’s skin, made him weak in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. He felt wobbly inside, shucked empty, and he wasn’t sure he could conceal it.

He murmured, “Hey,” and Crosby lifted his head like it weight a million pounds. Claude wasn’t sure what to expect—anger or humiliation or perhaps awkwardness, but instead he got his first glimpse of what a thoroughly fucked-out Sidney Crosby looked like.

He was beautiful. Weary, yes, and open, completely and warmly open, his mouth curving in a dozy smile. It didn’t matter, suddenly, that Claude didn’t have the energy to hide how exposed he was, because Crosby was in the same boat, apparently. There were no walls, and Claude thought, terrifyingly, that he could look at Crosby for hours when he was soft like this.

He wasn’t sure which of them moved, but they were kissing again, slick and slow and sweet. It felt like it took days, that kiss, and even after Claude’s dick had softened and slipped from Crosby’s body, they kissed and kissed and kissed.

It took Coots clearing his throat, audibly amused, for Claude to draw back, reluctant and a little sour at the need. He noticed that Coots was dressed, his hair wet from a shower, and then immediately dismissed that info as unimportant, especially since Crosby was inches away and staring at him, dazed and clinging.

“This explains a lot,” Coots said, grinning and gesturing with a finger in the air between Clause and Crosby. Claude would’ve flipped him off if it hadn’t meant having to let go of Crosby to do it. Instead he just tunneled his fingers through Crosby’s hair and pulled him back in.

Coots was long gone by the time they surfaced again, and the only reason Claude managed it this time was that Crosby’s breath had begun hitching again. His cheeks were wet again too. Tears of exhaustion, Claude decided, taking in the heavy limbs and developing frown. Exhaustion and emotional upheaval.

“Let’s get you clean,” Claude said.

Getting Crosby to his feet was an exercise in teamwork, and Claude ended up propping Crosby against the wall while he waited for the feeling to return to his legs. Finally he steered Crosby into the shower and turned the water on to steaming hot. Crosby stood under the stream, face tipped upwards into the spray, but didn’t otherwise move, and Claude figured that meant he was taking over hygiene duty.

Disturbingly, he didn’t mind at all.

He tried to sort through the feeling as he shampooed Crosby’s hair and scrubbed dried come and sweat from his skin. He wasn’t sure how to define it, but he kept coming back to Coots’s comment: _This explains a lot._

Did it? Had this electricity and sweetness always existed between them? Had the potential always been there, but been made inaccessible by rivalry and competitiveness and bad sportsmanship?

He wasn’t sure. Looking at Crosby leaning against the shower wall, eyes closed, his body curved with fatigue, Claude really wasn’t sure. He knew he liked this, that he felt a sense of ownership and protectiveness that he’d only ever known with some of his most vulnerable rookies and Danny’s boys. There was a wariness here, though, that didn’t exist with those other relationships, an awareness that the battle for this intimacy had been hard-fought and could restart at any time, that these moments were all the more precious for being temporary and nearly impossible to earn. Crosby would regain his equilibrium sooner or later and go back to his usual infuriating blend of competitiveness and irrationalities. Claude wanted to believe that this feeling would go away when Crosby reverted, but he suspected it wasn’t true. He was afraid that this need would resurface over and over, interspersed with violent episodes unfurling between them, episodes that ended with this fragile, lovely peace for a time, until the whole thing started over again.

Not unlike the quest for the Cup, he thought, and snorted.

He pushed Crosby’s hair back from his face, his fingers making the gesture tender when he hadn’t meant for it to be. Crosby’s eyes opened, and it took a second for him to focus on Claude.

“I need to sleep,” he said, and Claude nodded.

“Let’s get dressed. I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Do you have a car?”

The team bus had probably made several trips to the hotel by now, but he doubted it would come back just for him; he could picture Coots saying something like, _yeah, they’re getting married, we’re never going to see G again, we should just go._

The little fuck.

“No,” Claude said. “I can drive yours, though. I’ll call a cab from your place.”

Crosby turned off the water with a quick flick of his wrist. His jaw set, and when he spoke, it was directed to the tile beneath their feet, and so soft that Claude had trouble hearing him. “Or maybe you don't. Maybe you don't call a cab.”

Claude’s hand tightened involuntarily on Crosby’s cheek as he pictured it: following Crosby into his dark house, walking through a shadowed living room and up unfamiliar stairs. What would his bedroom be like? Was Crosby like half of Claude's rookies, sleeping on futons and leaving piles of dirty clothes everywhere? No, Claude doubted it. Crosby was too particular and he was hardly a teenager; his bedroom was probably really nice. His mattress would be a mile wide. Claude imagined sliding under expensive sheets, imagined Crosby lying in awkward silence at his side, both of them uncomfortable and wishing Claude had gone back to the hotel. Then he imagined Crosby huffing impatiently and yanking Claude closer, tugging their bodies together so that they knocked knees and elbows, so close that Claude could smell the scent of the Penguins' locker room shampoo on Crosby's curls. He imagined waking up with Crosby's too-warm body sprawled vulnerable and sleep-heavy beside him. That...that would be okay. Quietly, he said, “This is going to be rocky.”

Crosby lifted his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. But I like fighting. I mean, I like fighting _for_ something. Don’t you?”

Claude considered, but with Crosby’s gaze so intent on his, it was a little hard to breathe, let alone argue.

Sounding frustrated, Crosby said, “That’s the whole reason you want me, isn’t it?”

Claude thought of the angry, rebellious _fuck you_ that’d ridden every line of Crosby’s body when he’d first shown up, and yes, he did want that. Crosby’s antagonism woke him up like nothing else except being on the ice. He also thought of the moment at the bench just minutes ago when Crosby had been lovely and broken down and clinging to him. Somehow there was room for both of these extremes in Crosby's strong body. Who knew what else Claude might discover, given enough time? “Not the whole reason.”

Crosby—Sid, it was probably Sid now—nodded. One hand lifted to tentatively rest on Claude's hip. “It’s not my whole reason, either.”

“Okay. Good." So they were doing this. Whatever this was, they were doing it. Claude pressed a kiss to Sid’s damp temple and hoped they figured out what the hell they were doing sooner or later. "It'll be good."

**Author's Note:**

> This is a verse where the losing team in any game sends a ‘sacrifice’ to the winning team to get gang-banged. Because reasons. While the sacrifice gets a safe word, obviously dubious consent and coercion are built into the scenario at its core. This is made particularly complicated here as Crosby, the sacrifice, is not the POV character. Crosby volunteers to be the sacrifice, and for most of the story, he's either a) angry but determined to carry on, b) happy to be there, or c) indifferent to the kink at hand but untroubled by it. There is one particular incident that other characters find disturbing, but Crosby views it as a battle of wills (one that he wins, for that matter) rather than a traumatizing event. While he has a fairly strong negative reaction, he chooses not to safe word. He does not view the incident as non-consensual, and therefore neither do I. If any of that bothers you, this is not the fic for you.  
>  
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> [tumblr](https://viceperannum.tumblr.com/)


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